


Patrick Stump vs The Big Donald Trump

by tommythedankengine



Category: Donald Trump - Fandom, Fall Out Boy, Political RPF, is that a fandom?
Genre: Crack, Like really creepy, M/M, a mistake, pete saves the day, too long, trump is creepy, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8560795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommythedankengine/pseuds/tommythedankengine
Summary: Patrick peeled open the letter, and began to read. My Dearest Patrick, Pause, pause, pause. Patrick froze. What the heck? "My Dearest Patrick"?! Who would send that? Even more confused, he continued, scanning the page of flowing script. Almost feminine, it seemed.I'm sure you've heard of my name. If not, I'm Donald J. Trump, one of the best men alive.





	

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me for the reference built into the title. i had no ideas otherwise. it was going to be called "my dearest patrick".
> 
> so.
> 
> what is this. two words: a mistake.
> 
> and 8.5K word mistake. i need to stop. seriously.
> 
> WARNING: THIS IS NOT AN ACCURATE PORTRAYAL OF DONALD TRUMP. THIS IS HOW HOW HE IS IN THIS UNIVERSE ONLY. THAT'S ALL.  
> ps. forgive any grammar mistakes. i am tired.

_Bring._

 

Patrick shot out of his chair, awoken from mid-nap, and crumbled to the floor from the sudden movement. His legs were still half asleep. _Wow._ He completely forget how freaking loud his doorbell was. It hasn't been that long, really, but touring makes you forget how real life works. He crouched on the floor and caught his breath, before lifting up his head and pulling himself up from the dirty (he hasn’t swept in what felt like years) ground.

 

He didn't remember ordering anything in the last few days. Hm... maybe he did? _Maybe_ Pete ordered something and sent it to his house as a surprise. It wouldn't be the first time. (Like, once, Patrick woke up to find a sparkly pink— _pink_ —box on his front porch. He opened it to find a box of bedazzled condoms, signed “with love” from his best friend, Pete. Never again.)

 

Now slightly more afraid to check the door, Patrick padded across his hardwood floor in sock-clad feet. The muffled _thumps_ met in time with his heart. He pulled open his front door to reveal... a letter. Just a letter. Upon closer inspection, Patrick found it to be a rather... ornate letter. Hmm.

 

Patrick turned and shut the door, gripping the letter shakily in his hands. He collapsed back into his chair and pulled his blanket over his knees. His hair flopped over his eyes as he bent over and fished out the letter from under his thigh, which had fallen when he grabbed his soft blanket. Still-shaking hands slowly peeled open the wax seal, it popping just slightly, as if the letter was sealed with a vacuum. It _had_ to be from someone rich; if not, who would send him something like this?

 

He didn't recognize the seal, but he believed that it was something—or someone—important. The question was: who was it?

 

Finally, he got the letter out of the envelope. He held it carefully, as if it might explode at any given moment. As a celebrity (a "celebrity", he believed. He _definitely_ wasn't famous like Kanye West or something), he'd come to expect the worst in the mail.

 

Patrick peeled open the letter, and began to read.

 

**_My Dearest Patrick,_ **

 

Pause, pause, pause. Patrick froze. What the heck? "My Dearest Patrick"?! Who would send that? Even more confused, he continued, scanning the page of flowing script. Almost feminine, it seemed.

 

**_I'm sure you've heard of my name. If not, I'm Donald J. Trump, one of the best men alive._ **

 

Patrick mimicked a gag. _Trump?_ What the heck. Why was Trump sending _him_ a letter, of all people? What did he want? Patrick really didn't want to get within 10 feet of the man, if he was being honest.

 

His mind filled with dread at the coming letter, but he decided to plow on. A gut-feeling was urging him to. Maybe it wasn't as creepy as he thought it would be. You never know. _The Donald_ never ceased to surprise him. (Note to future him: _It was so much worse than you think it could be_.)

 

 **_And, I want a private concert from_ ** **you.**

 

Crap.

 

**_I've always loved your voice._ **

 

Double-crap. With a side of what-the-holy-heck-is-going-on.

 

**_I'm willing to pay good money to see you. (How is a small amount of $1,000,000 sound?)_ **

 

Wheeze. Patrick nearly fell out of his chair when he saw the number. $1,000,000! _Maybe it would be worth it... Stop. Stop. It's_ Donald Trump _. Stump, it's not worth it. What if he's a molester? But... $1,000,000..._

 

**_If you accept, please send a letter back immediately. No one must know (at least, not the media). I am eagerly awaiting a response._ **

 

_Eagerly...?_

 

**_Forever and always,_ **

 

FOREVER AND ALWAYS.

 

**_Donald J. Trump._ **

 

Patrick sank back into his chair again, pensive. What in the world just happened? Trump wants him to... sing for him? For $1,000,000? Why? Patrick rubbed his temples to bade off any incoming headaches. It was futile. He tightly closed his eyes to the ache.

 

Should he? That's a _lot_ of money, just for him to perform. The last time he performed for even a tenth of that money it ended in a bar fight with some drunk millionaires. (Note: they can hit _frighteningly_ well. He can still feel the punch to his right cheek. Ouch. There was a bruise there for _days_.)

 

Would it be worth it? He should really ask Pete... but it said to tell no one. Or, to keep it out of the media. Maybe he should text him. Pete always seemed to have good advice. Crazy, at best, but they’re still worthwhile to listen to.

 

Patrick fished out his phone from his pocket, and hovered over the keyboard in Pete's message group. Finally, he just took the plunge and texted him.

 

 

 **To:** Peter Panda [14:15:30]

 

_Pete. I got a letter in the mail._

 

_[image attached]_

 

 

He laid his phone down gently on his chair arm, staring blankly at the letter. His mind flitted desperately between yes and no. The Donald Trump was a creepy guy, but the money should be worth it. It's not like he hasn't gotten a request via letter to play privately. (Although, it surely wasn't as creepy as it was now. _Dearest..._ Dang. _Shudder._ )

 

He was startled out of thought when his phone dinged. He picked it up again and read Pete's text.

 

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [14:16:47]

 

_what the freakin hck trick. trump? $1,000,000? r u gonna do it? (also: frvr and always ??? wth)_

 

 

 **To:** Peter Panda [14:17:15]

 

_Should I? "Forever and always"? I'm kinda scared. Peeeeeeterrrrr Weeeenntz help me please._

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [14:20:13]

 

_do it trick. ily tho so don't run off with trump w/o me ok_

 

 

 **To:** Peter Panda [14:21:51]

 

_Gross. I'll do it. I'll let you know if I need back up._

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [14:23:17]

 

_good. mke sure to gve me $$. love you_

 

 

 **To:** Peter Panda [14:23:57]

 

 _Love you too, Pete_.

 

 

 

Patrick laid his phone down again, and took a deep breath. He's going to do it. He's going to do a private show for Donald Trump, of all people. For $1,000,000. Holy crap.

 

He pulled himself out of his chair (so warm, so comfy) and walked a walk of shame into his kitchen, gripping the letter tightly. What was he going to say?

 

Grabbing a clean sheet of paper and a nice pen, Patrick pondered his next words. Was _Dear Mr. Trump..._ too formal? Hm. He laid his pen down and gripped his temples again.

 

He needed a coffee. And some alcohol.

 

How did is his day go like this? He just wanted a nice, relaxing nap and a restful day. He was tired. Exhausted, you could say. He was pushing on exhausted.

 

 

 

 

After what felt like hours ( _cough_ minus his—well warranted!—nap _cough_ ), Patrick _finally_ finished his letter to Trump. It read:

 

 

**_Dear Mr. Trump,_ **

 

**_It's me, Patrick Stump. I'm flattered that you enjoy my singing, and I'd love to perform for you. The given price is completely reasonable (even more so, sir, truly. I'm not worth $1,000,000!)._ **

 

**_Thank you again. When and where shall I go? I'm free anytime; just shoot me another letter._ **

 

**_Thank you!_ **

 

  1. **_Stump_**



 

 

 

Yeah, that sounds reasonable. This totally isn't the weirdest and most awkward thing he's ever written in his life (see: "Blue Rabbits"). But, it's most likely going to be the most awkward live show _ever._ It’s just going to be him and _The Donald._

 

Yikes.

 

Patrick banged his head against the desk and sighed. He's got to do this. ( _The money_!) Patrick stood up and pushed in his chair, stuffing his letter into a spare envelope.

 

He was going to do this. Without giving it a second thought, Patrick walked out his front door and dropped his letter into the mailbox. Breathe. He spun around and shut the door, closing his eyes tightly. No regrets. No regrets.

 

 

 

 

_SO MANY REGRETS. SO. MANY. REGRETS._

 

So, Patrick got a return letter at an _alarming_ rate. Like, a rate of 12 _hours._ 12\. Freaking. Hours. Patrick crumbled into his chair at the unholy 6 in the morning and held the letter tightly. " _My Dearest Patrick_ " was sprawled over the front in the quickly-familiarizing-script.

 

Patrick shuddered again. _My Dearest..._ gross. He unfurled it with trembling fingers, pulling at the expensive-looking paper. He closed his eyes tightly again and quickly glanced at the paper.

 

 

**_Patrick—If I may refer to you as that—my dear,_ **

 

Patrick nearly gagged. WHAT IS HE GETTING HIMSELF IN TO! He was going to kill Pete for suggesting that he should do it. ( _The money,_ he thought, running a hand through his hair, _you're doing it for the money._ )

 

**_I am delighted that you have agreed to my offer! I'm so very excited to meet you, very soon. How does Tuesday the 8th sound?_ **

 

Soon. So soon. Too soon.

 

**_I'm going to need some sort of soothing music (and presence) to help with the election. I hope you understand? Of course, why wouldn't you want to see me—especially on the night that I may get elected. We could celebrate, if you're still here._ **

 

Brain bleach. He needed brain bleach. _The money... the money.... one MILLION dollars, just for a day. THE MONEY._

 

**_I can send a private jet to pick you up Tuesday morning; you'll get the best treatment, don't worry._ **

 

 _The best?_ he contemplated, _hmmmm._ Images of warm apple pies and nice naps under warm blankets while flying at 500 miles per hour floated peacefully through his head. Maybe this wouldn't be too bad? _Maybe._

 

**_I hope to see you soon—and that you hope to see me soon too._ **

 

Yuck.

 

**_Donald J. Trump_ **

 

 

Patrick laid down the letter and gripped his temples. So soon. He can do it. He has to. He pulled his blanket over his head and, against any mental prompting, cried. Hard.

 

 

 

 

After that little mental breakdown, Patrick felt better. Well, a bit. He wasn't about to cry at any given moment, but he felt a sense of dread filling him. Maybe he shouldn't go through. Like, what if Trump is going to be super creepy to him? (Well, even _more_ than the letters.)

 

He needed a drink.

 

 

 

 

One stiff drink later, Patrick was ready to pack. He contemplated texting Pete for a good 30 seconds before placing his phone back down. Pete would be of _no_ help at all. (Like always.) Despite his good advice, the man was of no help in a crisis. (Sorry Pete of the future.)

 

It was Monday, and he had to leave within the next 24 hours to Trump's (yikes). Soon. It felt like an exam that was worth 50% of his grade which was going to be the next day. It really was. It was his dance with the metaphorical devil. Maybe the real one, if all of the rumors about Trump were real.

 

He slowly shuffled upstairs, dragging his feet over his wood stairs. The creaking noises did nothing to shock him out of his state of what-did-he-get-himself-in-to. He methodically packed an outfit and some toiletries, also taking extra care with his guitar. (His baby, his one true love, all those cool things.)

 

 

 

 

The night passed with an alarming pace. Patrick shot upright in his bed, breathing heavy, after a terrifying dream of Trump trying to roast him over a fire, chanting "Harnest the spirit, harnest the spirit!" _Thanks brain; you’re really helping me_ , Patrick thought.

 

It was 6 AM. According to Trump, a private jet was coming to get him today. He wasn't sure when, but it must be soon. The plane ride will be rather long he assumed.

 

_Honk._

 

 _Thump._ Patrick fell out of his bed at the sound of the car horn right outside his window. Gosh. He groaned and pulled himself off the floor and scrambled down the stairs, gripping his bag and guitar case tightly.

 

He heard his bags marking his walls, but, honestly, he couldn't care less. The dream he had kind of scared him into going to Trump's; like, what if he doesn't go and Trump comes after him? Patrick had this horrific image of Trump sprinting after him, hair-flopping and orange skin warbling. _Shudder_. Horrifying.

 

He flung himself into the surprisingly nice cab, breathing deeply. At least he remembered to lock his doors and grab everything. (Hopefully.) He flung his head into the leather seats and let out another deep sigh. He's got this.

 

 

 

 

10 minutes into the drive and the weirdest thing has been the cab driver trying to chat him up.

 

"Sir, sir?" the driver—John?—asked, when Patrick collapsed into the cab. "Are you okay?"

 

"Oh, yes, yes," Patrick mumbled. "Just peachy."

 

"Well, I'm glad. A pretty face like you shouldn't be bad, right? Why are you visiting Mr. Trump today? I haven't heard much from him (or, since I'm just a cabbie, from down the chain of command), I just know you're a singer." Patrick sighed again and rubbed his temples. He chose his next words carefully.

 

"Mr. Trump wants me to perform a private concert for him," he said. Patrick hoped he was allowed to say.  

 

"Oh really? That's sweet. He may seem quite a dominating man, but really he's quite nice once you get to know him. I hope you get to see that!" The driver grinned brightly at him through the mirror; Patrick attempted a returning grin, but made it about halfway before giving up. It was too early for this.

 

"I hope so. You look like such a nice guy, so I hope everything turns out okay for you." Dang, this guy is _way_ too energetic for 6:30 AM.

 

"Thank you." And, with that, Patrick popped a pair of headphones in and closed his eyes, drifting off to the drum beats of some of his favorite songs.

 

 

 

 

"Sir? Sir? Mr. Stump?" Patrick was awoken by the driver insistently tapping his shoulders, nearly shouting at him. Patrick didn't even know what day or time it was anymore. It felt like he slept forever.

 

"'M up, I'm up," he mumbled, batting at the other man. He pulled himself up off leather seats, his pale skin sticking slightly. He felt his bag and guitar be taken from him as he was led out of the taxi and onto a _tarmac_. Holy crap.

 

He heard the loud buzz of engines starting up, along with the whistle of planes taking off. That was a rude awakening, jeez.

 

"Alright, Mr. Stump, sir," the driver said excitedly, shaking Patrick's hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you! I hope I'll get to see you again sometime!"

 

Patrick grinned slightly, more awake than before. The guy's general happiness with life was infectious. "You too," he said faintly, before he was escorted to a— _gold plated private jet._ 'Trump' was sprawled over the right side and wing. The jet black lettering glittered in the morning sun, nearly blinding Patrick.

 

"Woah," he murmured. His escort nodded to him, smiling slightly. There was a slightly insane glitter in her eyes. Oh dear.

 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said adoringly, looking like she was about to stroke the plane in admiration. Patrick really didn't want to see her basically molest the plane. That's too weird for right now. Maybe after a couple of beers, but definitely not sober. He mutely cursed Pete once again.

 

"Yeah... it is," Patrick replied cautiously. He was then led up a stair case that had just materialized in front of him; the stairs seemed to be of a solid gold variety. Patrick was afraid to breathe on them.

 

From there, he was pulled into probably the fanciest room he's ever seen. There was golden chandeliers on every aisle; the seats were a plush silver and the windows were painted in the darkest black he's ever witnessed. Each seat (there was only 8 of them) had its own minibar and refrigerator, along with a 48 inch flat screen.

 

From his position in the front of the plane, Patrick could see 3 servers, all dressed in fancy suits and dresses. They smiled and waved once they noticed him; the guy in the center looked scarily like his driver—maybe they were twins? He wasn't sure.

 

The captain caught his eye too, and held a wide-mouthed grin that was an eerie echo of Pete's smile. Patrick shook his head to clear the scary comparison, but it still remained. The captain was also sporting _solid gold teeth._ The best of the best, holy crap. Patrick was sure he was dreaming.

 

He heard his favorite music playing through about 20 speakers, and he smiled. Patrick didn't think much of it, knowing that anyone could find out his music tastes if they do a bit of research. It wasn't creepy. Totally.

 

Patrick was gently guided to a seat, and he sat down. His butt was in heaven! This is probably the best thing, like, ever. The seat was the _best._ He placed his guitar carefully next to him, and pulled out his phone, typing a quick message to Pete.

 

 

 **To:** Peter Panda [07:13:16]

 

_This place is heaven._

 

 

Patrick pulled his phone up to take a picture, but, before he could, a server pushed his hand down gently. "No pictures, sorry sir." He looked truly apologetic.

 

Patrick blushed. "Oh, it's just for my friend, Pete. I'm not posting it anywhere."

 

The servers smile grew more forced, his brown eyes looking almost trapped. "Sir, we cannot have any evidence that you were here. Please. It's Mr. Trump's rules."

 

Patrick blanched. _No evidence...?_ _That's totally not creepy._ "Oh, o-okay then. I won't take pictures."

 

"That would be absolutely fantabulous, Mr. Stump. Mr. Trump will be oh so delighted!" The server grinned widely again.

 

"Yeah, okay. What's your name?" Patrick wanted to change the subject ASAP. He also wanted to text Pete back (he felt his phone vibrate while the server was talking).

 

"You can call me Brendon, Mr. Stump." _'You can call me'... that's weird._ Patrick knew he shouldn't think too hard about it, but this whole situation was still rather fishy. He regretted going for what felt like the 1000th time.

 

"Okay. Please call me Patrick, though. Mr. Stump makes me feel old," Patrick replied, nodding. Brendon nodded too, in agreement.

 

"Of course, Patrick, sir." His dialect reminded Patrick of Dobby from _Harry Potter._ "Do you want a drink, or something to eat, before we take off? We should be getting to Mr. Trump's mansion before midafternoon."

 

Patrick glanced out the open window, noting the sun's position, and nodded. "Please," he said, and realized that he hadn't even eaten breakfast. Well, that explained why he was so hungry. "What type of food do you have here? I’m okay with anything."

 

"Well," Brendon said excitedly, as if he'd been waiting his whole life to rattle off the list of items, "for breakfast—since it's not even close to 8—we have a traditional breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns and orange juice. We also have oatmeal with fruit, along with any sort of egg dish that you could think of. Our chef is very talented!"

 

"Do you have coffee?" Patrick was in dire need of a strong cup. Maybe with some vodka if they had it. That'd help take the edge off Brendon's insistent chatter.

 

"Of course, sir—Patrick. We have every creamer, milk, and sugar in existence. To your left, there's a minibar with alcoholic beverages—that is, if you're old enough."

 

Patrick laughed. "Yeah, I'm 32. Haven't gotten mistaken for 20 in years."

 

Brendon giggled nervously, while shooting a worried glance over his shoulder. "Sorry about that; you look very young. I guess that's why Mr. Trump likes you." Patrick studied Brendon's face, which was slowly turning red, as he took in Brendon's words.

 

Patrick's eyes widened and he was about to voice his disgust when Brendon hurriedly continued: "That was a joke, sorry about that, Patrick, sir!" He turned away from Patrick, facing the rear of the plane, before muttering: "You have got to keep your mouth shut, Brendon."

 

"Oh, it's okay. Just a joke, hah." Patrick searched for a way to change the subject, before deciding to bring it back to food; his stomach was insistently garbling at him. "Um, Brendon, can I have the traditional breakfast with some coffee, please?"

 

Brendon snapped back to attention, a fake grin plastered to his face. "Of course, Patrick, sir! Mr. Trump hoped you'd pick that option; it's his favorite! How would you like your eggs? Orange juice? Coffee?"

 

Patrick ignored the Trump comment—no need to be reminded why he was on this plane in the _first_ place. "Eggs scrambled, orange juice with no pulp, and coffee with your favorite creamer and 2 sugars." He knew if order from memory. When it comes to food, he doesn’t mess around.

 

Brendon's cheeks colored and he nodded. "It'll be out in a jiffy, Patrick, sir!" With that, he turned swiftly and skipped— _skipped_ —down the aisle. Patrick smiled softly and laid his head against the back of the chair, hearing the sounds of the plane starting up.

 

Off he goes to probably the weirdest thing he's ever done. (Yes, including the time that Pete rented ice cream truck and took him joyriding through the entirety of Chicago. At 3 AM. While high and shouting "Free the cats!" at the top of their lungs.)

 

 

 

 

For the second time that day, Patrick was awoken by insistent tapping on his shoulder. He breathed deeply, taking on the delicious scent of bacon and eggs. "Heavenly," he murmured.

 

"Of course, Patrick, sir. Only the finest of dishes are served on Mr. Trump's private plane! We only want the best for him—and you, by extent." Brendon smiled widely, showing off the very bright teeth. Patrick held in a giggle—this kid was too much! He wondered how old Brendon is.

 

"Thank you, Brendon. This looks amazing!" Patrick took a deep draw of his coffee, and smiled. The best. For a minute, he forgot why he was on the plane, and who he was going to see in a couple short hours. As Brendon turned to go hang out at the back of the plane, Patrick called to him: "Brendon, how old are you?"

 

"21, sir," Brendon replied promptly, back still facing Patrick; he continued to walk the short distance to the back, and Patrick watched him crash into a chair. He shot Patrick another bright smile when he noticed that Patrick was still studying him.

 

_21..._

 

 

 

 

Time passed quickly, and soon enough the plane was gearing to land, right outside of Trump's mansion, as he was excitedly told by Brendon. "Mr. Trump has an airstrip minutes away from his house!"

 

Brendon had ended up sitting with Patrick was nearly the duration of the flight, so Patrick told him to drop the 'sir'. They weren't strangers anymore, and it made Patrick feel old.

 

One thing that Patrick did learn was that Brendon had an _amazing_ singing voice. When Patrick told him so, Brendon blushed so brightly Patrick was sure he was going to pass out. Patrick made a mental note to refer him to Pete and try to get him out of here and doing something he so obviously loved. _Brendon Urie..._

 

They were interrupted from their chat about music by the captain. "We're about the land, Mr. Stump."

 

Patrick nodded, and called back: "Thank you."

 

The entire flight crew was so kind, and so nice that Patrick hoped that Trump would be similar. After all, if you worked with someone who was cruel and angry, then chances are you would begin to emulate them.

 

Well, he was right _and_ wrong about that one.

 

 

 

 

One teary (on Brendon's part—man, that kid was emotional) goodbye to Brendon later, Patrick was awkwardly standing on the tarmac, waiting for Trump to pick him up. His heart was racing and his palms were sweaty. Why was he so nervous?

 

He glanced left and right, and up at the falling sun. It was about 3 PM, and no sign of Trump. Maybe he had forgotten? Patrick hoped it was that; even though the plane ride was highly entertaining, he didn't want to spend the day/night with Trump. Who would?

 

He tapped his foot again and checked his phone—holy crap, he forgot that Pete texted him. He had been so engrossed in talking to Brendon that he completely forgot Pete's texts.

 

He unlocked his phone and swept through the barrage of texts.

 

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [07:16:45]

 

_heaven? r u sure?_

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [08:13:56]

 

_trick r u dead_

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [09:45:16]

 

_wait i jst rmmbered that u were on a plane. srry. remember to bring me $$_

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [11:24:13]

 

_trick i miss u. i may fly ovr there to see ur pretty face_

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [12:48:53]

 

_im borrrreeeeddd w/o u_

 

 

 **From:** Peter Panda [12:54:36]

 

_ur dead arent u_

 

 

 

Patrick laughed slightly at Pete's texts. Leave it to him to not realize he can't text an airplanes (unless there was wifi—Patrick forgot to ask. Knowing how rich Trump is, there probably was. Oh well.).

                    

 

 **To:** Peter Panda [15:08:15]

 

_Pete I'm alive. Couldn't answer on the plane and currently waiting for Trump. I'll text more later._

 

 

He sent the message to Pete before stowing his phone once again. He wanted to get moving—it was hot in the sun. He regretted wearing all black, along with wishing he had a cold drink to offset the heat. He patted his forehead dry with his sleeve before resuming his stance.

 

 

 

 

Finally— _finally,_ he heard a car pull up behind him, the brakes squeaking as they came a stop. The black limousine was decked out in Trump merchandise: "MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN" was stamped over both the left and right sides; Trump's bright orange face was over the hood, grinning so brightly it looked like it hurt.

 

( _America's first Oompa Loompa president,_ Patrick thought snidely, grinning internally.)

 

From what Patrick could see, the hub caps of each tire were also Trump's face, all bright orange and large smiles. Also, just to make it _that_ much campier, a large ( _yoooge_ ) spinning Trump head was set on the roof of the car.

 

Patrick shuddered at the thought of what Trump's office looked like. Hopefully not orange. (He didn't get his hopes up. With Trump’s skin tone, he would be far from surprised.)

 

The car came to a screeching halt, finally, about 20 feet away from him, and Patrick saw the door open. He held his breath for a good 10 seconds, his heart beating wildly. Why was he doing this again? _Ah, the money. That's why._

 

As if it was a cheesy '80s movie, Trump stepped out of the car in slow motion, his corn silk hair—neatly styled—rustling in the slight breeze. He threw his head back for a second, basking in the glory that was himself, and locked eyes with Patrick.

 

Patrick froze.

 

Trump was quick, really quick, and he crosses the distance between them in a record time. Before he knew it, he was locking hands with The Donald. Their height difference was almost hilarious, and Patrick soon found himself face-first in Trump's (extremely nice!) suit. He wasn't expecting a hug. ( _He smelled like oranges!_ )

 

He tried to pull away, but Trump wasn't having any of it; he held him tighter for another second before letting him go. Patrick coughed awkwardly before looking up to Trump, who was grinning bright.

 

"Mr. Stump!" he said loudly, nearly scaring Patrick half-to-death, "I'm delighted to finally see you! May I call you Patrick? Of course I can, I'm Donald Trump. I hope you're well?" He took little time between each word, already exhausting Patrick to no end. Each time his smile began to fall, he artificially brought it up again, causing his orange skin to jiggle. Patrick recoiled slightly.

 

"I'm well, Mr. Trump, thank you for asking." Patrick spoke cautiously.

 

"Call me Donald, please!" Trump smiled again, while placing a small hand on Patrick's shoulder.

 

"O-Of course, Donald," Patrick replied, wanting to throw up. He gripped his guitar case and bag tighter, seeking solace in the inanimate object; anything was better than Trump, honestly. Gosh, he was regretting this more every second.

 

"Now," Trump said, directing Patrick to his limousine, "how did you enjoy then flight, Patrick? Everything up to standards? I only want the best for you." Every survival sense that Patrick held was tingling. Bad, bad, bad. Trump's hand tightened on his shoulder, almost in a controlling manner. Patrick shuddered.

 

"It was great. I talked to one of the attendants—Brendon—just about the entire time. We like the same things." Patrick watched as Trump's mouth tightened just slightly.

 

"Oh really? Brendon has been around for about a year or so, I believe. He's very friendly." Patrick could almost hear the "almost too friendly" tagged onto the end. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed the flight. Do you want a drink?"

 

Patrick didn't even realize that they made it into the limo. Though, he really should have. The interior was a bright, eye catching _orange._ The seats were covered in a plush (and soft as all heck) orange cover; the ceiling was orange leather; the mini-fridge and table were a hideous orange, and the TV screen (which was currently playing CNN) was tinged just _slightly_ orange—enough that Patrick noticed it.

 

"Do you like the décor?" Trump asked, grinning again and waving his hands around the space. Patrick forced himself to nod.

 

"It's lovely," he choked out.

 

"I'm glad," Trump replied, patting Patrick's upper thigh lightly, as he took his seat. Patrick flinched again. He leaned over and pulled out two sodas. "Coke or Pepsi?"

 

"Coke," Patrick answered, reaching out for the drink. Trump nodded approvingly.

 

"Always choose Coke, my dear. It's the drink of success." Trump then proceeded to pop open another can, and drink it in one fell swoop. "Delicious."

 

Patrick was still hung up on "my dear". The thought of Trump calling him that seriously made his spine tingle. This is too creepy.

 

And it wasn't even 10 minutes into meeting the guy.  It could only get worse from there.

 

For the nth time that day, Patrick cursed Pete's insistence that he should go. Damn you, Pete.

 

 

 

 

So, Patrick survived the (4 minute!!) car ride. Just barely, if he was being honest. _At least_ 10 different times, Trump's hand was somehow placed on his thigh, stubby fingers digging into the soft flesh. So hard, sometimes, it felt as though there might be bruises.

 

Trump kept looking at him with this terrifying soft look in his eyes; the blues were troubling. Patrick felt kind of violated, really. Trump had like x-ray vision, staring down Patrick, gushing about him being there like a school girl. Frankly, it was disgusting.

 

When they pulled up to Trump's mansion, Patrick was the first out of the car, squeaking as Trump's hand accidentally made contact with his ass. Patrick's face flushed a bright red as he awkwardly stood in front of the grand front doors (each were rimmed with pearls, all sparkling like diamonds; Patrick wasn't sure how to react.)

 

"Let us enter my humble abode!" Trump boomed (right in his ear!), and the doors opened with an invisible force. A burst of cool air nearly blew Patrick's fedora off. He giggled nervously and followed Trump into the house, shivering slightly.

 

It was beautiful. Every surface shined like it was brand new; the lights were tastefully chosen; the grand staircase was gorgeous, and... It was all orange.

 

Patrick couldn't believe it. The car was one thing... but his house?! The color was hideous, but hidden well behind paintings and other wall décor. "Woah..." he mumbled.

 

"Great, isn't it?" Trump said pompously. "Only the best for myself—and now you, Patty dear."

 

Patrick ignored the nickname, despite how creepy it sounded (especially coming from Trump's mouth) and nodded. "So," he said, trying to change the subject, "where do you want me to play? I have my acoustic on my." He gestured to his guitar case.

 

"Of course, of course!" Trump bellowed. "Right this way—you can play in my, uh, bedroom." Patrick coughed to cover up a choke.

 

"Uh... okay, if you say so..." Patrick made a mental note to text Pete ASAP to get his ass down here to save him.

 

"Great! My room is _yooooge!_ Just like my hands." Trump waved his average-sized hands wildly. "Follow me, follow me."

 

 _And your ego..._ Patrick thought scathingly. Trump strolled off, and Patrick nearly had to jog to keep up, since Trump was 6'1 and he was 5'4. Trump's long strides were really hard to meet.

 

They went up 3 staircases and an elevator until, finally, they made it to Trump's master suite. His wife was nowhere to be found, but that didn't seem to bother Trump; he opened the doors with a terrifying grin on his face.

 

"Welcome!" he boomed. "Make yourself at home, m'dear. You can play on that chair right there—" he pointed to a very plush, squishy-looking chair—"and I'll hang out on the bed." He supplemented these words with a lift of his eyebrows. Patrick gagged.

 

"Okay," he replied, and strode to the chair. He sat heavily, and nearly moaned. This seat was so comfy!

 

"I told you, only the best," Trump said. "Do you like it?"

 

"'Love it," Patrick answered, stretching his back. When he heard a few satisfying _pops_ he returned to his earlier position of sitting up right. He fingered his guitar case, unaware of the looks Trump was directing to his long and lean fingers. For a short guy, he had rather large hands. (Trump was appropriately jealous.)

 

"I love your hands," Trump whispered out of nowhere.

 

"Uh..." Patrick was stunned at the random (at best) compliment. "Thanks..? They're like this from all of the guitar playing I do, y'know."

 

"How often do you play?" Patrick brushed off the weirdness of the random questions, although, after all, he _was_ here to play guitar and sing for the man.

 

"Every day," Patrick said happily. "I love to play—and to write—so it's what keeps me going—"

 

"Your voice keeps me going," Trump interrupted.

 

Patrick faltered. "Uh... excuse me?"

 

"I said, your voice keeps me going," Trump repeated. "During this campaign, especially."

 

"Oh, okay. That's very kind." Patrick was obviously perplexed. Why him? _Why him._

 

 _"It really got me through,_ " Trump stressed, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

 

"OH! Woah, woah, woah," Patrick said, shaking his hands. His face burned a bright red. "Well, uh, do you want me to sing now?" He desperately tried to change the subject. _Pete please save me,_ he thought. _Please._

 

"Of course!" Trump cried. "I need a little boost before the electoral returns begin to come in, y'know." He checked his watch. "Good golly! It's almost 5 o'clock."

 

_Good golly... Jesus Christ._

 

"Oh, what a shame—"

 

"—the poor groom's bride is a _whore!_ I know the old emo music!" Trump yelled, nearly startling Patrick out of his comfortable seat.

 

"Um... yeah, that. I see you've done your research."

 

"Of course! I wanted to know all about my _very_ special guest. I know _so_ much about you." He said this as if it wasn't creepy at all. "I've also listened to all of your music. Every. Single. Song."

 

"Including unreleased?" Patrick was scared to find out the answer, if he was being honest.

 

"Of course. I'm Donald Trump—I have my ways."

 

"O-Of course. You're very dedicated." And _extremely_ creepy, Patrick added silently. He cursed Pete again and again.

 

"Now, now," Donald waved his hands around, "what are you going to sing today, my dearest Patrick."

 

"Erm, whatever you want, really. What is your favorite song?"

 

"Well, I have loads, but we are almost running out of time before the returns start to come in, so I'll choose my favorite." Patrick held his breath as Trump thought.

 

"Allie," he said after a long pause. Patrick let out his breath. He wondered why _Allie._ Trump looked at him expectantly.

 

"Yeah, sure," Patrick answered, glancing at his guitar case. He can do that. It would lose some of its charm without the heavy drums and bass, but that was okay. He sucked in a breath and popped open the case.

 

Lovingly picking up his guitar as Trump watched expectantly, Patrick geared himself to perform. He faced Trump once again, and at Trump's insistent smile, he began to play.

 

**_Whenever you found it,_ **

**_It's none of my business_ **

**_Now, wherever you go, go, go_ **

**_It's not my concern_ **

 

He sang. He tried not to look at Trump, who had very obviously slid up on the bed, hands on his knees, staring at him in sheer concentration.

 

 

**_But for a second, your attention_ **

**_Just belonged to me_ **

**_And it passed so fast_ **

**_It just fractured off my cool._ **

As he played, he thought of the meaning of the song. Nostalgia and all that stuff; he pondered _why_ Trump told him to play this song.

 

**_I'm not broken-hearted,_ **

**_I'm just kind of pissed off_ **

 

**_'Cause, Allie I was so good back then_ **

**_But I wonder if I'd be so good if I saw you again_ **

**_Listen, miss, you've got me_ **

 

**_You shoulda taught me such naughty things_ **

**_(You shoulda taught me such naughty things)_ **

**_You coulda taught me such naughty things_ **

 

Oh. Maybe that's why...

 

Trump had folded his hands over his lap, and Patrick immediately understood. He nearly gasped but focused his attention on singing. _Sing, don't look, sing, don't look,_ he repeated in thought, trying to not blush.

He finished the song in amazing speed. All he wanted to do was _get out of this room._ And _far far away_ from this man. He considered calling Pete, and immediately dispersed the idea. Not enough time.

 

"Bravo, bravo!" Trump called, jarring Patrick out of his thought. Focus. Trump still hadn't moved his hands off of his lap, and Patrick blushed a dark red.

 

"Thank you." He smiled a stretched, fake smile. Only a bit longer. He can do this.

 

For the 100th time, it seemed that day, Patrick cursed Pete Wentz's existence.

 

 

 

 

**18:00.**

 

Patrick was tapping his foot anxiously, glancing at the walls for any semblance of entertainment. Trump had left him about 10 minutes ago, after another song ("One more, dear, please! Play _Dance, Dance._ That was my favorite song in 2005!"), citing that he had to go watch the returns.

 

Patrick was bored. Trump had left him with a "wait for me, baby, and we'll celebrate when I win."

 

He wasn't sure if he could escape or not—he texted Pete after Trump left, but he got no response. That was weird, since Pete seemed to _always_ be on his phone. He sighed.

 

Trump had locked the door when he left—from the outside—so Patrick couldn't just leave. That, and he'd be hunted down if he did so. Trump could be scary if he wanted too.

 

What to do... what to do.

 

 

 

**19:00.**

 

Patrick was starving. He phone was dead, and there was no sign of Trump or Pete, anywhere. This was where he was going to die. Definitely.

 

 

 

 

**20:00.**

 

Death would soon be upon him. Patrick had moved from the couch and onto the bed, gripping his dead phone tightly. He flipped on the 70inch TV to the news channel and watched it.

 

It seemed as though Trump was winning.

 

His future was bleak. (He could imagine Pete yelling at him for being over dramatic. Screw Pete.)

 

 

 

 

**21:00.**

 

Trump might win this. Patrick shuddered at the thought of what Trump meant by "celebrate" with him. He felt violating thinking about it. His wrinkly... gross.

 

He needed a drink. (Wow, he seemed to need one a lot the last few days. That must be a problem. Oh well.)

 

 

 

**22:00.**

 

Food, food, food. Patrick's stomach grumbles as he thought of spaghetti and other yummy foods. He also wondered what Trump's plan was—why was he keeping Patrick locked in his bedroom for hours?

 

What if he never comes back? Maybe that would be better. Who knows.

 

 

 

**23:00.**

 

For once in his life, Patrick would be happy to see Trump. He might even kiss him. Or Pete. Or whoever answers the door and saves his sorry butt.

 

Also, it looked like Trump might win.

 

Patrick just wanted to go home. And eat. Go home and eat.

 

 

 

 

**00:00.**

 

Patrick was drifting to the sounds of CNN. Tired, so tired.

 

He wanted food. And Pete.

 

(And his mom, but he didn't want to admit that. He was a grown man. He _didn't need_ his mommy to save him from scary men... It'd be nice, though.)

 

Drifting, drifting, drifting.

 

 

 

**01:00**

 

Dreaming.

 

Patrick awoke with a muffled shout. He was dreaming about Trump (for the second night in a row) chasing him with a rusty spoon, trying to gouge out his eye, yelling "Die, my dear, die!"

 

Traumatizing. He'd never look at spoons the same way again.

 

He needed to get out of here, but this bed was so comfy, and he could just...

 

 

 

 

**02:00.**

 

Sleeping. He needed it. He didn't realize how tiring Donald Trump was.

 

 

 

**03:00**

 

_Click._

 

The door to Trump's room swung open, the light flooding the large room, falling mainly on Patrick's curled-up body. Patrick stirred in his sleep, burying his face into Trump's goose feather pillow. (He needed to get one—it was heavenly!)

 

Patrick stirred again, as he heard heavy footsteps fall towards him. Trump's heavy breathing could be heard over the TV blaring his— _his!_ —win.

 

Trump leaned down, and brushed his lips over Patrick's ear. Patrick could feel his wrinkly lips and corn silk hair over his face; he shot up in an instant. His forehead connected to Trump's, and they both went flying.

 

10 maddening seconds later, Patrick found himself on top of Trump, in the bed, basically straddling the 70 year old. He was still half asleep.

 

"Well, well, well, my dear; I see that you're excited for my win!"

 

"Wha—" Patrick was confused. He was confused about a couple of things.

 

One: where was he?

 

Two: why was he straddling _Donald Trump?_

 

Three: Trump _won?_

 

"Patrick, m'dear, you're at _my_ house, and I just won the presidency! I am now President _The Donald._ " He let out a hardy laugh.

 

Patrick was still straddling him, but he was beginning to wake up. A lot was happening. Patrick tried to pull himself off of Trump, but the man gripped his tee shirt.

 

"Dear, why are you trying to leave me so soon? We've got time to have some fun!"

 

"Woah, woah, woah, what do you mean? I'm-I'm-I'm only 32, please stop," Patrick cried.

 

"You want the Trump Stump™, don't you?" Patrick was delirious as he fought Trump, but the man held him down.

 

"All I wanted to do was perform!"

 

"No, my beautiful boy, you wouldn't have signed if you didn't want _me_ too," Trump replied smugly. " _Especially_ since I'm now the President-Elect."

 

"No—I don't," Patrick grunted. He gained a sudden sense of strength, and unclenched Trump's hand from his shirt, pushing him off. Patrick clattered to the floor, his back slamming into the hardwood flooring. He groaned. "Ouch."

 

"Oh dear," Trump said, giggling. "Sorry, Patty."

 

Patrick pulled himself up. "It's okay." He pushed himself across the floor, sliding until his back hit the ornate door. Close. So close.

 

"Now, now," Trump said patronizingly. "Don't you leave. You still haven't gotten your daily dose of vitamin _me._ "

 

"I'd, uh, rather not." Understatement of the century.

 

"You're lying to yourself. Why wouldn't you want _me_? I'm the best you could ever get."

 

"I could think of a list of people better than you right now," Patrick mumbled.

 

"Excuse me?" From Patrick's position on the floor, he could see Trump sit up slightly, obviously trying to listen better.

 

"Nothing." Patrick shook his head. Trump moved closer to Patrick, sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

"If you say so, Patty." Patrick rolled his eyes. He began to reach up to turn the door knob.

 

"What are you doing?" Trump snapped. "Why are you trying to leave me?" ( _Dang, he's needy,_ Patrick thought.)

 

"I... um..." Patrick wasn't sure how to articulate it. He just wanted to go home. Like, now. Imediately.

 

"You can't leave! I _need_ you to celebrate with me! I'll make you feel _amazing_ , just for one night."

 

Patrick didn't respond.

 

"Aha! You _do_ want me. Come here, baby, please." Patrick shook his head. No.

 

"Come _ooooon!_ " Trump whined. He got up, walking towards Patrick's slightly shaking body. He pinned himself closer to the wooden door, trying to keep the larger man away from him.

 

Trump kneeled to Patrick's level, and, without a moment's hesitation, pulled his up by his collar (how did he get so strong! He's _so old_.)

 

Patrick whimpered. Trump held him up so they were face-to-face. "Want to kiss me, lovely? Just kiss me, you fool!"

 

Trump pulled him close, and their lips just touched when, suddenly, the room was flooded with light once again. Patrick had just felt Trump's cold, clammy lips when he was dropped suddenly.

 

"Trump!" he heard a voice roar, through the fuzziness of his head. He's fallen _way_ too many times today. The voice sounded familiar. Oddly familiar.

 

" _Wentz!_ " Patrick heard Trump yell back. "What are you doing here?"

 

"Saving my friend," Pete yelled, crossing the gap between him and the other two men. Patrick tried to fight against his swimming head. "Patrick." He felt Pete kneel next to him. "Are you okay?"

 

"Peachy," Patrick mumbled. "Just peachy." He pulled himself to whisper into Pete's ear. " _Get me out of here._ "

 

"Of course," Pete said between his teeth. Patrick heard him stand back up, and he could almost imagine he standing there, hip cocked to one side, his hand resting gently on it.

 

"What's your problem, Mr. President-Elect? Why Patrick?"

 

"He's gorgeous," Trump stated simply, and Patrick felt himself—and Pete—recoil slightly. Gross.

 

"Of course he is!" Pete bellowed, "But only I can appreciate him."

 

"But how could he resist _me_? I'm, well, Donald Trump! All the lady's love me. They let me grab them by the—"

 

"Woah, woah, woah," Pete interrupted him, "I didn't want to hear that. Save it for the bedroom—oh, well, the _locker room_."

 

Trump colored. "You insolent little—"

 

"Boy? Is that all you got, you cheeto?" Pete gloated.

 

"E-Excuse me?" Trump asked, coughing slightly. "A _cheeto_? I, Donald Trump, compared to a snack food?!”

 

"Of course. A cheeto with below average-sized hands."

 

" _DON'T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT MY HANDS!_ " Trump roared; Patrick giggled slightly from the floor.

 

"Tsk, tsk. Seems I've a sore spot?" Pete asked.

 

"Just get out," Trump stated. He crumbled onto his bed, shaking slightly. "Just take your beautiful Patty and _leave me alone._ "

 

"O-Oh, okay." Pete sounded almost... disappointed. He seemed to be having fun with this. He bent down and pulled Patrick to his feet. Patrick stood unsteadily, gripping Pete's arm, and surveyed the broken man before him.

 

Trump was shaking still, and Patrick could tell hay he was crying. "I-I j-j-just wanted a _friend._ "

 

Patrick almost felt bad. _Almost._ Then he remembered that Trump basically was trying to assault him before. Never mind. The man deserved no sympathy.

 

Pete pulled Patrick out of the room and down the long hallway. They walked in tangent, away from the new President-Elect, who was sobbing (his sobs could be heard down the hall—an aide came rushing down, and observed Patrick and Pete with a keen eye. They shook their heads at her silent question.)

 

 

 

 

They made it out the mansion and down the road in silence. Patrick was unsure what to say to Pete. He decided to ask the most burning question in his mind. "How?"

 

One word.

 

Pete blushed and rubbed his hair. "I was worried, if I'm being honest. Trump... the weird letter... y'know." He shrugged.

 

"Of course. Uh, thanks, Pete." _Thanks Pete_. He almost regretted saying it. That meme…

 

"No problem, Patty dear." Pete grinned.

 

"Holy crap, _never call me that again._ "

 

"Trump?" Patrick nodded, shuddering.

 

 

 

 

** 10 DAYS LATER  **

 

 

 

 

"Are you sure that you want to sue him?" Pete was skeptical if it would even work.

 

"Yes. He never paid me the desired amount. I want my money; it was the _only_ reason that I went there." Patrick sagged into his chair, sucking in a deep breath. "I want my money." Badly. If he doesn’t get it, then he went through that whole predicament for _no reason at all_.

 

"That's right," Pete said, "you never gave me any money!"

 

"You little..." Patrick fake growled, before smiling again. He was going to get his money, _especially_ after what happened to him that night. He can't hear the name Trump without shuddering slightly. That man is vile.

 

He can't believe that he's the President-Elect.

 

"My Patty dear," Pete said mockingly, "you're my true love. Give old Trump-y a kiss!" Pete smacked his lips jokingly, and Patrick slapped him.

 

"Hush. Help me write this suit."

 

"We should've gotten a lawyer!" Pete wailed a moment later, throwing his head back. "I don't want to do this!"

 

"This was your idea, so shut up and help me."

 

"Fine."

 

 

 

 

Trump sat up in his office, rubbing his temples. He had a horrendous headache; this President-Elect stuff is difficult. He spun in his chair a few times, just to feel that childish-joy once again, before focusing on the paper before him.

 

He heard a knock at the door. "Come in!" he yelled.

 

A young-ish boy opened the door. "Mr. Trump?" he squeaked out.

 

"Yes, Brendon?" Trump replied.

 

"I have a letter for you, sir," Brendon said excitedly, "it's from Mr. Stump!"

 

"Patty dear!" Trump squealed. "He sent _me_ a letter?"

 

"Uh-uh, yes sir. H-Here." Brendon darted in for a quick second, threw the letter onto Trump's desk, and scampered out again.

 

Trump grabbed the letter carefully. He unfurled it, pulling the sheet of paper out. It was written in two different handwritings.

 

 

 **Mr Trump—or, Donald,** it read.

 

**Hello there. It is I, the greatest, Patrick Stump.**

 

The handwriting abruptly changed.

 

**_And I, Pete Wentz._ **

 

**Shut up, Pete. Anyway, we are writing you—oh great one, about a certain, oh, monetary value.**

 

**_Meaning—you owe Patty dear and I a lot of money. $1,000,000 to be exact._ **

 

Trump shook his head. Of course. But, why should he pay them! Patrick only sang, and didn't provide any _other_ services.

 

**Pete, shush. Trump, if you don't pay, we will file a lawsuit and sue you.**

 

**_Eh, we'll sue you anyway._ **

 

**Pete. So, yes. Here are our terms: pay us the money by, eh, Thanksgiving. If not, we will be suing you. Beware.**

 

**_Yeah, beware._ **

 

**Pete!**

 

**Mark my words, Trump.**

 

**Signed,**

 

**Patrick Stump _and Pete Wentz_**

 

Trump passed out, falling backwards in his throne-like seat.

 

He wasn't found for 4 hours.

 

 


End file.
